A Good Cup of Tea
by TheWitch'sCat
Summary: Short story. In the early twentieth century, a woman often became a governess because she was unsuitable for marriage, for whatever reason. A look at Mary as a darker character. A guilty, angsty, romantic pleasure.


**So, this is a little nugget that snuck into my head. It's darkly romantic with a dash of angst, my...cup of tea. The idea came from a random quote I found online that said something like "Nannies, or governesses, in the early twentieth century, often found themselves in their profession because they were unsuitable for marriage, perhaps because of lack of virtue or lack of position." I read that and kind of let my brain run with it. Plus, I like the idea of a less perfect Mary. So let me know what you think. I think this will be short, but have another chapter or two. Enjoy. :-)**

* * *

**A Good Cup of Tea**

He sat in a dark corner, nursing a drink and wishing the fire from the sprawling stone fireplace across the large room would reach his fingers. Taking another sip of murky, dark liquor that burned all the way down, he waited. Checking his pocket watch, he waited and also wondered how long he should wait. He was costing himself a solid day's work to go on this excursion. He'd had to travel hours outside of the city, to the north, and he hoped it was successful. Although he wasn't sure what outcome would be considered a success.

After an interminable amount of time, the door to the dark, hazy pub opened with the creaking of ancient wood. Something in the air shifted. The weathered, chain smoking bartender looked up and stopped his cleaning. The other patrons, mostly factory workers drinking off the aches and pains of hard labor, looked toward the door. The barmaids stopped with their trays full of glasses, resting their hands on ample hips as though they were expecting someone. And then, through the doorway she strode.

She had perfect form, her posture absolutely straight as she swung the heavy door closed behind her. Her dark blue skirt swirled just above her ankles, revealing dark stockings and exquisitely detailed, laced boots. Her coat was jet black and belted around her slender waist. Her hands were gloved, her collar straight, crisp and buttoned to her neck. Her hair shone like dark, wet cherry wood. Her locks were upswept under a black hat. When she surveyed the room, her silhouette was like a perfectly sculpted bust, somewhere between Greek strength and gypsy beauty. Her skin was pale and smooth. Her lips held a perfect smirk, as though drawn with a blood-red quill. Her eyes were startling, like dark blue obsidian, clear in their color but opaque in their mystery. Her lashes were heavy and dark, hinting at gypsy again, but the waves of dark hair around her face were fitting for a proper, English lady. With a quick lift of her chin, she crossed the space, dropping her heavy bag and umbrella in the corner as though the room was her own.

He watched her, his drink now forgotten.

With easy grace, she swung herself up onto one of the barstools. With a flourish she pulled off her pristine, white gloves. Pulling the pin from her hat, she daintily took it from her head and dropped it on the bar on top of her gloves. Then, as he watched in shock, she untied the ribbon from around her collar. Letting it hang, she unbuttoned several of the buttons on her carefully pressed shirt. She pulled out a small, round mirror, opened it, and smiled at her reflection, touching her glossy hair.

"You gonna let that 'air down, Mary?" a voice called out from behind her.

She turned, eyeing the slouching gent who'd addressed her, taking in his patched coveralls and grime covered neck.

"Not for you. Not tonight," she snipped, never losing the smirk.

The same fellow and several of his friends guffawed, but none seemed offended. Mary glanced at them and then away, as though this banter had occurred many times before. The bartender came to stand across from her, giving her a wide, admiring smile. Leaning on the thick, wooden bar, he poured a drink and slid it her way.

Taking a sip, she gave a nod and said, "Perfect. Strong. It's been a ghastly three months."

The men behind her snickered and then one tossed out, "It's been a lonely three months, 'ere."

With a perfect roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand in their direction, she addressed the bartender, "I'll take a round for my friends here, as well. They're still a little sober for my liking."

The men chortled again, and the first one asked, "And 'ow are ya paying tonight, Mary?"

She gave them a quick, haughty glance over her shoulder and answered, "I think it'll be the old-fashioned way tonight, thank you."

Then, he watched in disbelief at what she did next.

Propping her left leg up on the barstool beside her, she hiked her skirts up far enough to nearly reveal her hip. The edge of her black stocking and the clips of her garter were clearly visible, as was the smooth, white skin of her leg above it. It was clear, from what could be seen, that she was not wearing bloomers. Reaching in the edge of her stocking, she pulled out a clip of bank notes. Pulling one from the bundle, she slid it across the counter to the bartender.

Watching her, the men behind her made their pleasure and appreciation known. With cat calls and melodramatic gripping of their chests, they begged for more. The one who'd started it called to her, "Be still my 'eart, Mary. Ain't no finer lady I ever seen."

One of the others snorted and teased, "She ain't no lady."

"I'm lady enough, and more lady than you can handle, thank you," she snipped, putting her clip of notes away and smoothing her skirt back over her legs.

They laughed raucously again.

The same man spoke up again, saying, "Aw Mary, don't tease us now. There's no more perfect pair o' legs in all o' Manchester."

He saw her lips curve into a devilish smile, then. She swung herself around and off the stool. Unbelting her coat and pulling it off, she draped it over the bar. Her unbuttoned shirt revealed more than he'd ever seen of her. Crossing a few paces to the table where the men sat, she leaned over it, giving them a full view of the cleft between her breasts.

"Actually, I'll have you know that these are the finest legs in all of England. How dare you suggest otherwise," she admonished them.

One of the men pretended to swoon as she stood and walked away again. Swooping back onto the stool, she threw her drink back like it was cool water on a sultry day. She motioned for another one and the bartender smile and obliged. While he poured, one of the men got up from the table. He was tallish, with long limbs and the same dirty coveralls as the others. His hair was coppery brown, his features rugged and lined more than they should be for his age. He crossed to where Mary sat and approached her from behind. Slithering his arms around her body, he nuzzled his face in her neck. She startled, but didn't push him away.

His words weren't clear, but she raised an eyebrow. Then, his lips grazed her neck. In the second she was distracted, he spun her around on the stool to face him. He easily stepped between her legs, which she'd splayed to balance herself on the turning stool. Then, before she could protest, he put both his hands behind her head and kissed her hard and deep. Her body seemed stiff, at first, but then she relaxed into him. The other men whistled and called out again.

He felt his stomach turn and his heart ache as she opened her mouth and kissed the young man in the most inappropriate way. He took a long drink that burned his throat as he watched the young man slide his hand up her skirt and grip her thigh. He felt a twinge of anger when the man finally pulled away and she didn't immediately slap him. Instead, her lips curved into another smirk and she looked up at him with eyes that could melt iron. The young man just looked at her, his breathing heavy and his gaze intense.

She finally snapped, "All right, then. If we must. It has been a dreadful three months and I haven't had a good cup of tea in ages."

Hopping from the stool, she started towards the side exit that led to a dark stairwell.

Turning back she seized her drink and said, "I'll take this with me, thank you. And mind my things. I expect them to be as I left them."

With that, she breezed toward the stairway in a flurry of skirts. The young man followed, a satisfied grin on his face.

"Cuppa tea, all right!" the first, older gentleman called after them, "Lucky bastard."

He stared towards the side exit long after they were gone, in absolute shock. He couldn't believe what he had seen and heard. He couldn't believe _her._ A part of him was angry. Intensely angry that she'd let him think she was a proper lady, that he might court her. He'd always thought he was protecting her virtue by never being too forward. He'd thought she was too good for him. Now, he wondered if she might be too bad. Yet, underneath the anger, he was intrigued. She behaved like herself here. Certainly every bit of her personality was genuine. She was as vain and haughty and self-assured as he expected from her. She was a woman full of unexpected surprises. She was _her. _But these surprises were dark and unsettling.

Unable to sit any more, he rose slowly from his bench. Leaving a few coins, he crossed the space, trying to stay unassuming. He blended in easy enough, he knew. No one looked up. So he walked over to the side exit and peered down the hallway. Noting that the water closet was down the hall, he sauntered toward it. Then, at the last minute, he soundlessly crept up the staircase. At the top of the narrow, winding flight, he found another hallway. It was dark and lit by one oil lamp. There were no electric lights. Creeping carefully along, he glanced into two small rooms with sparse furniture. It looked as though the tavern might also serve as some kind of inn, if necessary. When he got to third door, he heard noises and stopped.

At first, he leaned his ear into the door. However, he realized there was a large crack in the frame that would allow him to peek inside. With a knot in his stomach and hoping he would find two people drinking tea, he leaned in and looked inside. What he saw cut him to his soul.

The young man had her pinned up against the wall. She was wearing just her corset and its undergarment, and her stockings and boots. Her hair was still pinned, but it was loose. One of her long legs was wrapped around the man's waist and her arms gripped the coat hooks on the wall behind her. The man was up to his bollocks in her, and her head was thrown back in pleasure. Her red lips were parted slightly, and she did not protest.

He stepped back from the door. He couldn't watch any more. He felt sick. He felt betrayed, even though he had no right. He felt deceived and belittled. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream and punch the doorframe. And then he realized that he wanted desperately to be the one who had her against the wall. And then he felt terrible for it, because it seemed so cheap and selfish.

He ran his hand through his hair, knowing he should leave but afraid that he would get downstairs and start screaming what he thought to everyone in the pub. He paced, trying to calm himself. He tried to ignore the noises he heard. He walked a few yards away and leaned against the wall, trying to calm down. He stood there for a while, torn. He rubbed his eyes and decided he shouldn't be here. He never should have come here. So he turned and headed back towards the stairs. Just as he'd nearly reached the steps, a door clicked open. He heard musical laughter and then a delicate gasp.

He turned around, and there she stood.

Her hair was smoothed and pinned again. Her clothes were buttoned and straight. Her appearance gave no indication of what had just transpired. But the young man's did. His clothes were wrinkled and hastily put on. His hair was wild and uncombed. And he had a drowsy, pleased expression that any man would recognize. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, unfazed.

She stared at him, standing at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were wide and uncharacteristically panicked. Her perfect lips formed no words. After quite some time, she finally managed to softly say, "Bert?"

He looked back at her, considered running, but then held his ground and simply replied, "Mary."

And then they stood there, facing off, neither sure of what to say as all their jolly holidays washed away like chalk on uneven pavement, driven into the gutter by the cold rain of reality.


End file.
